


Stars in the Deep

by MargaretKire



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Mutual Pining, Realm Under the Sea, Secret love, Takes Place After LOTR, Thranduil is Alone and Forsaken, Ulmo Lord of Waters, Ulmo is alone, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-07-11 16:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7060786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MargaretKire/pseuds/MargaretKire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the War of the Ring, Thranduil's realm becomes peaceful and thriving. Yet the Elven King feels that he is little more than a figurehead, fading out of existence as Middle Earth belongs more and more to Dwarves and Men. Then he encounters a strange Being, one that has an interesting offer for him, and Thranduil discovers that he still has something to live for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My very first Thranduil story! I am also obsessed with the sea, so Ulmo seemed the perfect choice.
> 
> The rating may change as this progresses, just as a heads-up.

 

Thranduil walked slowly through the trees, following the Forest River upstream to the north and the west as it twisted its way through his kingdom. His borders had expanded once the ring had been destroyed and the last of the foul creatures purged from the woodland. It was now known as Eryn Lasgalen, Wood of Greenleaves, and it was peaceful and beautiful once more. He was still king, and there were still elves in Middle Earth, though their numbers were diminishing.

Many had sailed for the undying lands, seeking out their everlasting homes among their own kind, in a land still wrapped in the magic of bygone ages. Some of Thranduil’s own people had urged him to depart with them, murmuring about the vast power and depth of the sea, the lure and heartbreak of their kind. For elves seldom saw the sea without longing for it forever afterwards.

That was the fate that had befallen his son. Legolas had departed Middle Earth with his companion, Gimli, never to return from Valinor. Thranduil had given his heart over to deciding whether he should follow his son. He always came back to the same thought. _There is time_.

Thranduil had never seen the sea. He loved his land, had always loved it, even in the dark days when so much of the forest had been dangerous and dying. Now that it was finally regaining health, he was loathe to turn his back on what had been restored.

His son had been born and raised in the halls of this forest. His wife was laid to rest here. He couldn’t leave. He would never find himself anywhere else. He was the forest. They were one.

He moved closer to the bank of the river, taking in the sound of the current and listening to the nearly audible words in its voice. Instead of his impressive robes of silk, he was wearing a simple tunic and breeches, his boots lashed up his legs to his knees. His white-blonde hair shone like mithril in the sunlight as he knelt by the water. He reached out, letting his long fingers trail in the current. Strands of his hair slipped over his shoulder, the tips drifting in the water.

This river once caused mortal beings to fall into a deep slumber if they entered the water. The effect wasn’t as strong now, though it would have been a foolish being to tempt fate in such a way.

Thranduil had the opposite reaction to being near the river. He had always felt invigorated by its cool touch and deep voice. It had always felt like a guardian over him and his kingdom, rushing through the heart of his citadel. Though it brought a lull to any others that neared its edge, Thranduil never felt more alive than when he was walking its shores.

He had come seeking that feeling. The age of elves and magic was passing. He was old. Other elves still dwelt in Middle Earth who were ancient compared even to him, he knew, but there were very few that old in his kingdom. He was feeling his years. Not in any physical way, as he still looked and moved like a man in his prime. It was his heart and mind that were worn out. He was tired from mourning his wife and all the elves he had lead into battle, surrendering their endless lives for reasons that seemed less and less substantial as the centuries rolled on.

Still, he could not leave this forest. He could not abandon his home. Thranduil threaded his fingers through the water. He could not leave the river.

There was a soft noise in the underbrush downstream, from the direction he had just come. Thranduil sprang to his feet and drew his dagger in the same movement. He had spent too many long years battling orcs and spiders to check his reflexes at the unexpected sound of footsteps. His hair swept in an arc around him, droplets flung from the ends of the strands.

A man rounded a bend in the river and came into view. _No,_  thought Thranduil, _not a man_. _Nor an elf_. He was taller. Taller even than Thranduil, who stood out among the elven kind. He was built similar to a man, strong, not delicate like an elf. He also had a short trimmed beard that framed his pale face. His head was shaved, and his skull was perfectly formed. Midnight blue tattoos traced over his scalp and down the back of his neck. From where his draped tunic hung open at his chest, Thranduil could see the markings trailing over his shoulder. There were thick bands of ink wrapping his wrists and forearms.

The clothes he wore were cut in a fashion unknown to the elf. Loose folds of blue and green so dark they looked almost black were arranged over his shoulders, dropping slightly open around his neck and chest. His waist was wrapped tight with fabric and a wide armored belt covered in detailed black metal was fasted tight with two parallel buckles.

The loose tunic fell to his ankles like a robe, but it was slit over each leg, allowing freedom of movement. His breeches were dark. His feet were bare as he walked soundlessly forward, and Thranduil realized that the Being had alerted him on purpose to his presence.

“Well met, Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm,” the Being greeted him. Thranduil’s eyes widened at the tone of his voice. It was like deep music. It held currents and wrapped around his name, weaving a spell. He longed to hear the voice again.

Thranduil made a small bow in acknowledgement of the greeting. “I am afraid I am unable to do you the courtesy of greeting you with your name in return, though I have a thought that we are not truly strangers.” His own voice, usually so deep and melodious in comparison with those of others, sounded flat in his ears as he waited for the reply. He had spoken truthfully enough. This Being seemed known to him somehow, as though he had just now forgotten when they had met before.

“That is well spoken, for we are not strangers,” the Being laughed, and his voice rolled out rich and strong, like thunder and ...something that set the elf’s heart on edge with longing. “And you know my name, though you may not realize as yet that it belongs to me.” The Being smiled, still several steps away. “If you do not guess it today, then I will tell you the next time we meet.”

Thranduil nodded once, solemnly. He had replaced the dagger in its sheath at his belt, but something about this creature made him uneasy. While he didn’t feel his life was in danger, he instinctively felt that this Being presented a very real threat.

“Normally I would question anyone who appeared in my lands with only the promise of a name,” Thranduil said warily. “But I am inclined to trust you, for the moment. There is something about you that is familiar.” Thranduil looked more carefully at the Being’s face now that he was close. His eyes were a deep, clear grey. His features were strong and perfectly shaped. The skin that was unmarked had a faintly luminescent quality, as though he would shimmer under the moonlight. “Are you one of the Maiar?” The elf asked. The being smiled, but shook his head.

“No, Lord Thranduil, I am not. Though we are of a kind, and you may think of me as one of their brothers until you remember my name.”

Thranduil was not sure how to proceed. He gave another inclination of his head, acknowledging the Being’s words. If he was brethren to the Maiar then he was due the elf king’s respect and deference.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this chance meeting?” Thranduil asked, his face schooled into a mask of calm, though his heart felt as though he had been running.

“This is no chance meeting, my king,” the Being replied. His voice was soft around the words. Thranduil’s eyes widened at the way he said _my king_ in his lulling voice, the echoes reverberating in his mind like ripples on a pond.

“No?”

“No.”

Thranduil noted then how the Being seemed to want to reach out to him, his arm making small movements as his fingers trembled slightly, as if desiring to touch. Thranduil took a step back and his companion took a step forward, still maintaining distance, but not allowing him to escape. The elf’s heart began hammering in earnest.

The other seemed to notice his distress then and moved back a pace, holding his hands up in an open gesture.

“Forgive me,” the Being said. “After all of my patience, I lose my restraint in the final hour. I apologize. I will come to you properly next time, my king, in your vast halls.” He gazed at the elven lord for another long moment, words unsaid trapped in his clear eyes. “I will bid you good day,” he said, and walked past Thranduil, continuing his way upstream.

The king watched him go, unable to find his voice. He was relieved at his departing, but also felt at a loss, not wanting him to leave with so many questions unanswered. The Being vanished when he was a ways down the path, as if he had stepped into the river, but Thranduil did not hear any indication that he had fallen into the water. The current kept murmuring its idle journey towards the distant Long Marshes, unchanged.

Thranduil checked behind himself several times as he made his way back to his home, not able to shake the feeling that eyes were following him. Even the river felt watchful. The elf touched the damp strands of his hair, sighing deeply, before entering the citadel.

***

Clothed in his robes of state, Thranduil climbed the stairs to his throne. He looked unseeing at the vast hall spread out before him. Soon, the space would be populated by elves and various visitors from the outside realms. Now that his forest was once again safe for travel, and he had formally extended his hand in friendship to the other races of Middle Earth, the woodland realm had many visitors. While Thranduil approved in principle, he also mourned the loss of his privacy.

He could feel himself becoming a figurehead, sitting on his throne, waiting for visitors and envoys. His kingdom was healthy, though it seemed fewer and fewer children were born, and more elves were beginning to turn their minds to the sea and the West. He still ruled over a fair number of subjects, though he no longer needed to toil in their behalf, not like he had during the dark years, walling them off in order to protect them.

Thranduil arranged his robes around him on the throne. He was tired. He would rather be… where? Wandering through the forest? Lounging in his chambers? Drinking wine with his court?

 _No_ _,_ he thought. _The river, I long for the river’s edge, the cool touch of the water. The murmuring voice…_

The king barely took note of those who sought an audience with him that day. He was courteous as always, but he had accepted that all that was truly required of him was to be there, on the throne. He was merely needed in a visual sense, a calming presence of old magic, of ages long past. The great Lord of the Elves, sitting on his ancient throne.

Once the hall was empty, Thranduil dismissed his servants and continued to sit alone for a few moments longer, listening to the low voice of the river where it rushed through his halls. He slowly stood and made his way back to his chambers. He was so very tired. A weight was pressing on him. It had been there a long while, but had begun so gradually, he had been scarcely aware of it, until it was a crushing burden.

He was no longer needed, yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave. His realm would survive just as well with one of the younger elves. The native, dark-haired elves of this forest. He and his father before him, had loved this land like their own, but it was not truly theirs as birthright. He could hand the throne on to a worthy native, and depart.

Yet, this was his home. He had been young when he had arrived in this land with his father, and it was the only place he had ever truly called his own. This land may thrive without him, but surely he would wither and die like an uprooted sapling if he were to leave the forest.

He bore the great burden of his loneliness and his grief, made so much heavier by his idleness. At least now, he had a small mystery to unwind, and as he entered his chambers, he once again took up the scroll of the Valar, pouring over the carefully copied script. He took the parchment to the balcony and turned to read the manuscript in the light of the setting sun.

He had read these scrolls before, long ago when he was still young enough for a tutor, when his father was alive. After his meeting with the Being at the river’s edge, he had recalled some of the passages in the old writings, and had a scribe bring them up from the archives.

His eyes traced over one passage again and again, something striking a chord in his heart at the words.

_Ulmo is the Lord of Waters. He is alone._

Thranduil’s pale eyes flicked up to the emerald green of the forest, his gaze traveling to where the wide arc of the river shone brightly in the last rays of daylight. He watched the water weaving slowly towards the elven kingdom, pulsing through the veins of the forest.

Ulmo. The name had always struck Thranduil as powerful. Lord of Waters. He was said to love rivers and streams, and to be interested in the ways of Men and Elves, never forsaking them, not even through all the dark days.

Thranduil thought that the Being he had met on the bank of the river may have been a servant of Ulmo. He claimed not to be a Maiar, but one of their brethren. He looked through the scrolls again. He already knew they did not contain all the names or descriptions of the ancient ones. The Being he met could be one of the wizards sent to guide the races of Middle Earth. _No,_ he thought, _not a Wizard. Nor a Man, nor an Elf, nor a Maiar._

He was powerful. Thranduil had felt it, like a charge on his skin. He had been ...beautiful. Heart achingly so. The elf began seeing the face again and again in his dreams. It appeared in the shadows of the dusk and in the darkness behind his eyes. There was no escape from the thoughts of him. Each time he appeared in his mind, Thranduil almost called out a name, knowing the face, having known it for ages, yet it escaped him each time.

 _I am enchanted,_ Thranduil thought. _It is some ancient magic._ He searched through all the scrolls in the archives, hunting for a name.

The season grew on, turning from Spring to Summer, the bright jade of the new year changing slowly into the rich emerald of full summer, then the dusky pine green and rust of the beginning of Autumn. The inhabitants of Middle Earth came and went, rumors of distant wars raging, but nothing to contaminate his own peaceful realm. His court continued as it had for many decades, steeped in wine and good food.

Nothing changed. Thranduil became more and more lifeless, nothing but a carved statue sitting on a throne made from the antlers of long dead elk. The loneliness seeping into his bones. The strange despair of the unchanging days.

On a morning he was due to appear on his throne, an unmoving symbol of the richness of the forest, he stole away and followed the river north and west. When he came to the spot he had seen the Being, he gathered his robes around him, away from the water’s edge and called out.

_“Come to me.”_

He waited. There was no answer. He returned to his halls and to his throne where he sat forsaken, regal, and steeped in sadness.

The day drew to a close slowly, the golden light lingering in the high windows of his hall. Thranduil smoothed one hand over his brow. He felt unbalanced. His head felt tight, as though he had drunk too much wine, though he hadn’t touched any that day.

He dismissed the court, sending them and the few guests that lingered there to the nightly feast. He stayed in the throne room a bit longer, watching the last colorful garment trail out of the chamber. Only then did he stand and slowly descend the steps from his throne. He closed his eyes for a moment at the foot of the stairs, and listened to the hushed voice of the river filling his halls. Then he turned, making for the archway that led to the hallways of his chamber. He did not wish to dine with the others tonight.

“Thranduil.” The elf turned at the sound of his name. There, a few yards away, stood the Being.

A broken sound passed Thranduil’s lips. The Being had come. He had come to Thranduil’s hall as he had promised. A strong emotion passed over the Being’s face at the sound Thranduil made. Again he seemed to want to reach out to him. Again he restrained his hand.

He was dressed as before, though his cowl was pulled over his head like a hood, obscuring most of the indigo markings on his scalp. His clear grey eyes caught the fading light of the setting sun, making them glow brightly as he gazed intently at the elf.

“My Lord,” Thranduil said, making as graceful a bow as he could, hand on his heart. He straightened and looked back at the grey eyes that were studying him. He was at a loss for words. Even though he had dreamt of this moment for months, and had prepared all sorts of questions and speeches, they all flew out of his mind the moment he was caught in that pure gaze.

The Being seemed to be drinking him in, examining him from head to toe. The expression on his face was impossible to read.

Thranduil was wearing the same robe he had worn as he fled up the river bank that morning. It was a pale golden-silver, nearly the same color as his hair, though not as bright. He wore a simple mithril circlet rather than an elaborate crown. The elf wondered if he still looked as wild as he had felt making his way through the forest, calling out for this Being at the river’s edge.

He felt like he was about to shatter like glass.

“Have you remembered my name?” the Being asked, looking both hopeful and full of sorrow, his long years reflecting for a moment in his eyes.

“You are Ulmo,” Thranduil said without a moment’s hesitation. As the name left his lips, he knew it to be true. This was no servant. This was the Lord of Waters. Lord of the Sea. Ulmo, who is alone.

The deep voice rumbled. Ulmo stepped forward, his bare feet noiseless on the intricately patterned floor. He stopped a few paces from the elven lord, gazing down at him.

Thranduil looked up into that face, surprised to have a creature taller than himself standing in his throne room. It was a novelty, looking up into a fair face. Thranduil closed his eyes for a moment in shame at his own foolishness. Here stood the mighty Ulmo, one of the Vala, a Being that descended from Iluvatar’s realm and helped fashion the very earth. He ought to have words for this. Thranduil was an ancient elven king. He had lived long and had given many fair speeches. Yet, he was mute in his greatest hour of need. What did one say when face to face with one of the Valar?

Instead of the beautiful words of welcome and praise the Being deserved, Thranduil was horrified to feel tears welling up in his eyes.

“You came,” he said simply, tears threatening to spill. Ulmo’s eyes widened. He took another step forward and he was close enough to touch the elf, but he held his hands at his sides. Thranduil took a shuddering breath, trying to reign in his suddenly overwhelming emotions. “Why?” he asked softly. Ulmo’s eyes held a soft warmth as he looked down at him.

“I came to offer you something,” he said simply. Thranduil looked up, surprised and uncertain.

“To offer me something, my Lord?”

“Yes.” Ulmo looked worried. If Thranduil were talking with another elf rather than an ageless Being, he would have thought that Ulmo was trying not to bite his bottom lip in anxiety. Thranduil furrowed his brow.

“Please tell me,” the elf said, and he had the absurd urge to comfort the creature that stood before him. Ulmo took a deep breath.

“You are alone,” he said at last. Pain smote Thranduil’s chest at those words. He knew what Ulmo spoke of. Thranduil had no loved ones beyond his subjects. Legolas was safe in Valinor, and his wife was long dead. He had never remarried. He had no lover, not even a friend. Just faithful servants who would treat any master over them with the same respect they showed him.

“I am alone,” Thranduil answered steadily after a moment, raising his blue-grey eyes to Ulmo’s face.

“How fares your kingdom?”

“Very well,” Thranduil answered.

“There is peace and prosperity for your people?”

“Yes.”

“Does your kingdom need you?” Ulmo asked. Thranduil was speechless for a moment. Before the war of the Ring his answer would have been different.

“No, it does not,” the elf replied. Ulmo nodded.

“Do you need this land?” Ulmo examined his reaction closely, searching Thranduil’s face as the elf tried to answer truthfully.

“I am not sure, my Lord,” Thranduil began. “I do not need to be king for the sake of the title, but I do wish to protect my people as it is my duty, as well as my desire. Also, I am one with the land. With the forest… and the river.”

Ulmo’s eyes sparked when Thranduil mentioned the river, but he remained silent listening to Thranduil’s words.

“If that is what you mean by _need_ ,” Thranduil said, “then in a sense I do need it. However, I am not tied to this place or this throne as I have been in the past. Once, it was out of fear and love that I sat here and guided my people. Now… now it is only as a figurehead, and it fills me with a great sadness and… a longing, for I know not what.”

Thranduil shook his head, and looked up at Ulmo, ashamed of all he had admitted. He had not meant to speak so openly of his feelings. They did not seem to be an honorable response to one of the Valar. Especially Ulmo, who had never abandoned the world of Elves and Men, unlike so many of his brethren.

“Thank you for your honesty,” Ulmo responded. “It makes what I wish to say easier to voice.” Here he turned and walked a few paces away from Thranduil, then turned and strode back, his pacing strangely graceful to watch. He pulled his cowl back from his head, showing his face more clearly in the dimming light. “I wish for you to come with me, Thranduil, Lord of the Forest. I wish for you to join me in Ulmonan, my kingdom beneath the waves.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is coming together a bit slower than some of my other works, and I apologize for the delay between chapters. I love Ulmo and Thranduil together, however, and can't wait to share more of this story with you.
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments!

Thranduil went very still, watching Ulmo. With his cowl thrown back, the Elf could read the Valar’s expressions more clearly. He appeared calm, but a tightness around his eyes and mouth betrayed some anxiety.

The Elf was shocked by the invitation. He had never heard of anyone other than the Maiar and the Vala traveling beneath the sea. Was Ulmo offering him death?

“I am old and worn, certainly,” Thranduil replied, slowly. Ulmo gave a very small, amused smile. “Although I still value my life and hoped one day to join my son in Valinor.”

Ulmo shifted his weight to his back foot, staring at the Elf before him for several moments, before his face broke into a sad smile.

“You think I offer you death?”

Thranduil looked up into those deep grey eyes, uncertain. “I know not, my Lord. I cannot imagine another possibility. This body may be immortal by the standards of Men and Dwarves, but Elves drown all too easily, my Lord Ulmo.”

Pain shot through Ulmo’s beautiful face. “Yes,” he murmured. “Elves do indeed drown too easily.” He seemed to be recalling some long-ago event, his eyes lost in time and sorrow. He returned to the present, looking sharply at Thranduil. “However, you would be an invited guest to my realm, and as such, I will provide you with the protection of my kind. You will come to no harm.”

Thranduil bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement. His thoughts were spinning, trying to understand the opportunity he had been given. To visit the realm of one of the Vala, of _Ulmo,_ was a priceless gift. Yet, Thranduil did not understand the reason it was being offered to him.

“While I recognize the honor you are willing to bestow upon me, I fear I have nothing to offer in return,” the Elf said, truthfully. “And I do not understand the nature of this offer. You have asked me if my land and people need me. They do not. Does this mean you intend for me to leave this realm -- my home -- forever?”

Ulmo turned and paced a few steps again, as if it pained him to stand still. He turned and spoke to Thranduil over his shoulder, the indigo blue markings trailing over his head and powerful neck.

“The length of your stay would be entirely up to you, Elven King.” He paced towards the foot of Thranduil’s throne, then swept back on his soundless feet. Thranduil watched the flash of white against his hall’s floors.

“Why are you offering this to me?” Thranduil asked at last. It was the question he most needed answered. Ulmo stopped his restless pacing in front of the Elf and there was a glimmer in his eyes, like a shaft of sunlight in a deep pool.

“There are several reasons,” Ulmo said, gazing at him. “For now, just know that it has been many years since I have had close dealings with the races of Middle Earth. I have stayed and watched from afar, but I have not built any sort of relationship with the inhabitants of this land for far too long. I need to make amends and become a part of the world once more, before all the ancient magic fades from these shores forever. You would serve as an emissary, an ambassador, between my realm and yours.”

Thranduil nodded. This was a concept he could understand. He assumed Ulmo had singled him out because he was the last Elven King in Middle Earth, one of the last of his people on these shores who could remember the first War of the Ring. Or perhaps it was for no other reason than that he could be spared from his halls.

“This is indeed a great honor, my Lord,” Thranduil said. He caught himself playing nervously with the hems of his sleeves, his hands twisting in the luxurious fabric. He consciously stilled the motion. “I am very much of a mind to accept your generous offer.”

Ulmo’s eyes flashed, darkening like thunderheads gathering at sea. He was very still, which unnerved Thranduil after the Being’s continual pacing moments before.

He made a sudden movement toward Thranduil, looming over him by several inches. The smell of the sea engulfed the Elf. At least, Thranduil thought, it _must_ be the sea. Cold and dangerous. A scent as deep and changing as Ulmo’s eyes.

“My Lord,” Thranduil said, taking an alarmed step backwards. “We have much to discuss. There are plans to be forged-”

“I could just take you now,” Ulmo said, the deep voice pulling like a riptide. “Let me lay my hand on you and we will be at the sea’s edge as quick as shadow.” He reached out one large arm, the folds of the tunic falling away to reveal a long stretch of bare skin, midnight blue markings racing up to the thick shoulder.

Thranduil took another step back. When had he last been touched by another besides the palace servants when handing him a goblet, fingers accidentally meeting? Not even his son had embraced him at their parting many years ago. The Elf dropped his eyes, taking another step away from the Being.

“That would defeat the purpose of an ambassador, would it not?” Thranduil asked softly. His gaze flicked up to Ulmo, who dropped his hand slowly. The long fingers bundled up into a tight fist at his side, the knuckles flexing white. A limitless creature holding back its strength.

The last light of the sun was fading, dropping the hall into gloom. A meeting would need to be held. His advisors consulted. Though Thranduil knew he was going, regardless of their words. He had known as soon as the Being had made the offer that he could not refuse.

A part of him longed to take Ulmo’s hand and vanish with him, leaving the burden of his crown for others. Thranduil, however, was a king, and as such, his people’s needs came before his own. Therefore, he would do this properly.

The meeting with his counselors proceeded quickly, considering the circumstances, but it still carried late into the night. Ulmo paced around the table silently, keeping to the edges of the room. The other Elves had been astounded by his presence, equally thrilled and terrified that such a Being as Ulmo was actually in their midst.

They believed that the offer was a great honor, and most agreed readily that Thranduil ought to accept. Several voiced misgivings, though politely in the face of the Valar in their midst, and worried for Thranduil’s safety and the good of the Woodland realm.

When called upon to speak, Ulmo came to the spot at the head of the table cleared for him, and laid out his thoughts calmly and kindly to the Elves, meeting their eyes and soothing their fears. His glance would always alight back to Thranduil, giving him control over the council as their king. Then he returned to pacing the large room as the Elves talked and made plans.

It was the first of several councils over the span of many weeks. Thranduil was aware of the time creeping on, every moment spent in debate feeling wasted. He had been used to passing entire seasons as if they were a mere handful of days, time like a gift and a burden stretching out before him, an endless road. Now a nervous energy was gathering in him, growing worse the longer he tarried.

Ulmo departed, saying that he would return for the start of the journey down the river that lay to the west. Thranduil and his companions would travel through the Greenwood to the river that ran south to the sea. They planned to stop along the river journey in Lothlorien to visit the few kin that remained there after the departure of the Lady and Lord many years before. Then they would also take on some new supplies in Rohan, before navigating around the falls and the dead water of the lakes.

It would be a long journey, taking some nine weeks to complete. There would be many Elves traveling with him, and they planned to give their king a royal send-off on the shores of the sea.

Thranduil went on his final visits to the Lord of Dale and the Dwarf King in Erebor, informing them of his mission and promising the continued support of the Woodland Elves. He explained that he was still officially king, but that a trusted Elf Lord would be ruling in his stead while he was absent. He was met with wary looks and murmured replies. Not many of the younger races heeded the lore of the Valar or could truly comprehend what this journey meant. In their minds, Thranduil was just another ancient Elf heading to the sea, never to return.

On the last night in his realm, Thranduil visited the graves of his wife and his father, speaking to them of his journey. He didn’t believe that they heard him, as they were far away in the halls of the dead, but it brought him comfort nonetheless. Then he wandered the river bank alone in the moonlight, breathing in the scents of the forest that he had known nearly his entire life. His blood thrummed to the pace of the river, to the heartbeats of the small creatures that lived in the forest, the rush of sap in the trees.

The Elven King knelt at the river’s edge, letting his fingers trail in the current, and a great bubble of sadness erupted in his chest, pain and loss, a grief for the green growing things around him. It had been millennia since he had missed a single season in this wood, the forest he had shed his own lifeblood for and that of his people. Now he would miss countless seasons, and though the land would spin on, the leaves unfurling and the creatures nesting in the undergrowth, he would not be a part of it.

He sobbed then, alone and on his knees at the edge of the water, his grief and loneliness overpowering him. He was the last, the last of the Elven Kings from the olden days, and he was leaving his wood.

At last he gathered his dignity and stood, wiping his eyes with hands cool and dripping from the Forest River, and made his way back to his halls for the last time that autumn.

They set out the following morning after Thranduil had bid farewell to the household and those of his court and council that would not be accompanying the travelers. On horseback, they followed the path that others had taken weeks before to ready the boats on the shore of the western river.

Thranduil sat straight and tall on the stallion he rode, taking in the forest like a man going blind takes in his last sight of the sunlit world. A few of his companions talked with him for a bit, but soon conversation fell into quiet, all the riders feeling the weight of the occasion.

The path they took was a well-worn track, nothing like the twisting paths of the dark years that led travelers astray, and it took just over a week to reach the river’s edge. They had been traveling west and slightly south, cutting out a bit of the river journey, to where the ships were moored and waiting.

Ulmo was standing with the Elves who were waiting for their Lord to arrive, and Thranduil’s heart lightened greatly when he saw him. The Valar’s promises had begun to seem like a fantasy, something the Elf had dreamed up in a fever, a lonely king losing his way in the dawn of a new era. He drew a grateful breath a the the sight of a Being both older and more powerful than himself, a link to the old world, the world Thranduil had known.

The Elves dismounted and Thranduil whispered to his steed, bidding him farewell and to take care of his new rider. Then he turned toward the ships, casting critical eyes over the lines of the vessels that were to bear them to the sea, so many hundreds of miles away. They were the perfect shape and size for travel down the river, at least until they would have to drag them out of the water and carry them past the falls. They were light enough to be born in such a way, though it would still be a difficult task for the handlers.

He turned to face Ulmo then, bowing his head in greeting.

“My Lord Ulmo,” Thranduil said, attempting to be composed. His nerves were on edge. His forest was behind him, and would only fall farther behind as they traveled down the river. The Being inclined his head, the markings showing along the top of his skull for a moment, and then he was searching Thranduil’s face intently.

“My Lord Thranduil,” he returned. “Your people are skilled in the crafting of river boats and are to be commended.”

“Thank you. That is high praise indeed from the Master of Waters.”

Ulmo gave a small smile in return and gestured to the largest of the waiting craft. The Elves’ baggage had all been stowed in the boats and the rest of the company was ready to depart. Thranduil stepped onto his craft with a heart full of worry and pain, though it had been lightened somewhat by the presence of the Valar, who had deemed him worthy to be an ambassador to his realm.

He sat in a small carved throne under a canopy that was open on three sides and closed in the back, protecting his fair skin from the direct rays of the sun. Ulmo sat in a matching seat nearby. They were silent as the boat was pushed out into the stream and the oarsmen took to their task. Thranduil turned his head once to gaze back at the distant line of trees fading into the hazy sunlight behind. When he turned around again, Ulmo was looking at him with deep grey eyes the color of clear river water.

“You will miss your land,” Ulmo said softly. The two of them were removed from the others and it felt like they were in their own private space, unobserved and unheeded. Thranduil knew there were servants nearby to supply them with anything they required, but they were unobtrusive. Thranduil felt free enough to speak as he wished to the Being seated an arm’s length from him.

“I will,” he responded. “It is like leaving a piece of myself behind. Though I know what I will gain will far excel the pang I feel at leaving my woods and river, I still feel the ache.”

Ulmo nodded and looked out over the land they were passing full of rolling hills and scrub.

“I understand your feeling,” he said. “I too, have left a home behind in order to fulfill a task.” He smiled sadly then, a great weight seeming to rest on his shoulders.

 _Left a home._ At first Thranduil thought that he meant Valinor or the the realm under the ocean. Then it struck him that he meant his place with Iluvatar and that Arda was his temporary dwelling. Thranduil suddenly felt very young and very foolish compared to the ancient creature next to him, who had begun his own life far before the formation of the world. In that moment, being among the oldest living things walking the land of Middle Earth didn’t seem such an accomplishment. Nor did it feel as lonely. At least Thranduil had been surrounded by his own kind, and until the conclusion of the second War of the Ring, he had the company of other, older, rulers than himself.

Who did Ulmo have? There were said to be servants that dwelt with him in the first ages of Arda. Had they stayed? Thranduil had so far only seen the lord himself.

He let his eyes wander over him, once again enthralled by his otherworldly appearance and strange beauty. Thranduil was caught by the markings etched on his pale skin, the deep color a rich blue, dividing the smooth flesh into planes of dark and light. The markings seemed to flow over him like a current, swirling and pooling in a rigid structure of geometry. The pattern both accentuated and disguised Ulmo’s body, cutting him up into pieces but also connecting him as a whole.

Ulmo didn’t comment on Thranduil’s blatant staring. When the Elf realised he had been lost in contemplation of Ulmo’s form and glanced up to see if he had been discovered, the Being was watching him out of the corner of his eye, the smallest of smiles turning up the corner of his mouth.

As darkness fell and travel on the river became too much of a risk even for Elven eyes, the ships pulled to the western bank and anchored there. Food was prepared and served. The Elves gathered to talk and sing quietly, though Thranduil and Ulmo remained apart from the others. It was Thranduil’s custom to be given space by the his court, and Ulmo showed no inclination to join in the merriment of the Elves, both content to listen instead.

They shared wine as the first stars came out, the servants stripping back the canopy so that the entire sky was visible. The two wooden thrones were pushed back, and the deck was strewn with thick rugs and cushions.

Thranduil sat cross legged and looked up at the stars for a long while, only turning to lie on the makeshift divan as the moon rose high and pale above the trees. His elbow sank into a pillow while his other hand held a goblet, and he lay half reclined while speaking again with Ulmo.

The Valar had accepted the wine, but had refused any food, the same as when he had stayed in Thranduil’s halls.

“I do not require to eat the same as your people do,” he had explained. “I do not wish to unnecessarily deplete your rations during the journey.”

“You plan to make the entire river journey with myself and my company?” Thranduil asked, keeping his voice low, unassuming.

“For the most part,” Ulmo replied. The pale moonlight gleamed over his skin, throwing the inked patches into darkness, his eyes a flash of alertness against a backdrop of stars. “I will need to leave you occasionally to attend to a few… affairs.”

Thranduil nodded and turned the smooth glass in his hands.

“You enjoy wine,” the Elf commented, gesturing to the goblet in Ulmo’s hand.

“Yes,” the Valar answered, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I will admit that I do not mind depriving you and your company of a bit of wine.” Thranduil returned his smile before Ulmo continued. “The taste reminds me of,” he made a gesture with one large hand, his long fingers silhouetted black against the sky, “...of the first days of Arda.” His eyes flashed to Thranduil and then dropped back to the sparkling liquid in his glass. “Much has changed… diminished… since those days. It is good to have something that retains its full strength.”

Thranduil nodded in sympathy, a dip of his head before raising his glass in a silent toast and drinking. Ulmo followed suit, his throat flashing, outlined in white moonlight as he swallowed.

“I do not have your years, my Lord, but I can sympathize with what you speak,” Thranduil said after a moment. “The Greenwood was so exquisitely beautiful when first my father and I arrived, the kind of beauty that perhaps only exists in the memory of youth, and not in the waking world. Yet I recall being sorely troubled that, after the rise of the darkness in my lands, even when the land was cleansed of evil, it never again regained its full splendor.”

Thranduil shrugged his shoulders ever so slightly and tilted his head to look back at the stars. They remained the same, even as their points of light shifted steadily, slowly, over the years, the splendor of the night sky was awe inspiring.

“Many of the Elves that were born after the rising of the darkness and the beginnings of Mirkwood think that I see the forest through nostalgic eyes,” Thranduil continued before giving a small shake of his head. “Forgive me,” he said, looking at where Ulmo sat in shadow, his strong edges outlined in silver light. “I must seem very young to you, and all my memories but a drop in time.”

Ulmo seemed to smile, though the Elf only saw a flash of teeth before the deep voice rumbled in answer.

“You do seem young, yes,” he granted. “Though I would never be so foolish as to discount your memories. You are right that things diminish. All things fade.”

They fell into silence, the lap of the river on the sides of the boat the only sound. Thranduil sipped at the wine until it was gone and a servant had collected the goblet. He rolled onto his back on the makeshift bed and stared up at the stars, picking out the elven constellations, trying to remember those of Dwarves and Men. He wondered if the Valar had their own names for the stars and how much Ulmo had watched the positions of those lights change in the sky. Had he once had a hand in placing them there?

Thranduil blinked heavily, trying to picture the time before the stars… trying to hear the music of Iluvatar. Ulmo's voice rising in the darkness before Arda… He closed his eyes and fell asleep gently, feeling he could imagine a few notes of the song at the beginning of the world.

 

**Author's Note:**

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